Sherlock, Supernatural Style
by ImagineThis22
Summary: Sherlock and John get a text from Gregson over in the states. They decide to help out by going to New York and working with three specialists on the case. Soon, they come to realize that maybe they are way out of their element. Maybe it's best to let Sam, Dean, and Castiel handle everything that goes bump in the night, and stick to triple homicides in London. T language


Sherlock glanced over at John in the cab and let his gaze linger before he broke the silence. "Ever been?"

John looked over at his flatmate. "To the states? Yes, once. I was younger then and I hardly remember it, though."

Sherlock nodded curtly as the silence settled once again.

"You?" John pried, trying to break the awkwardness of the cab ride.

"Many a time, actually. I helped a few officers in New York, particularly ones working at the NYPD headquarters. I once helped a man by the name of Toby Gregson -or as he's known in the NYPD, Captain Gregson- solve a triple murder. It was easy really. I apprehended the murderer within hours of me being there." Sherlock pulled out his phone and showed a text to John. "I received this early yesterday morning and it peaked my interest."

"Could use some help over in the states, Holmes. Have something I just can't explain," John read the text out loud. "What does he mean 'something he can't explain'?"

"That, my dear Watson, is why we're headed to New York. Gregson's a friend and, as I've learned from you, friends help each other."

"Sher-"

"We're here." Sherlock jumped out of the cab and paid the cabbie, his long coat swishing behind him. He retrieved both their bags from the trunk and set John's on the pavement.

"-lock…" John finished, sighing. He pushed open his door and hobbled out onto the pavement where Sherlock and his luggage were waiting.

"Come now, John, we wouldn't want to miss our flight." Sherlock turned and began to walk quickly to the gates.

John had to jog to catch up, finally falling into stride with the tall detective. "Which gate?" John asked,

a little out of breath.

"The one that holds the plane headed to New York."

"Yes, got that, but which gate? What number?" John shifted the duffle on his shoulder uncomfortably. _He better know where the hell he's going; I'm not going to lug this heavy bag around all over the god-damned airport._

"Relax, John. We'll figure that out once we buy the tickets," Sherlock smirked.

"You didn't buy the tickets? What the hell, Sherlock?" John lowered his voice as he noticed people turning to look at him, "You buy the tickets, and _then_ come to the airport, Sherlock. I thought you were a genius," John muttered.

"John, I insist you relax. I have the tickets; I'm not a moron. I'm not _Anderson_," Sherlock scoffed.

John sighed, letting himself chuckle at Sherlock's comment. "Fine, yes, sorry. It must just be the nerves making me tense."

"John Watson -_Captain John Watson_- is nervous? No, that can't be right." Sherlock loaded his bags on the counter for the lady to weigh and price. He helped John lift the duffle on the counter, and watched as the young woman behind the desk struggled to put it on the scale. She wrestled with it until she had half-dropped it on the scale, smiling nervously at John.

John nodded to let her know it was fine and turned his attention back to his curly-haired flatmate. "It's not that I'm nervous, per se, it's just that...well…"

"You're nervous?" Sherlock bit back a smirk.

John punched him in the arm and rolled his eyes. "No, I just don't like knowing that I'll be on a plane, trapped in a seat, next to a detective who can't keep his mouth shut, flying thousands of feet above the earth. Call it what you will, but I'm not nervous."

Sherlock thought of a response, but decided against it, knowing he'd probably be punched again, and not in the arm this time.

They walked through security with ease, to John's relief. He thought for sure Sherlock would muck up and cause a scene. They found their gate and sat in the waiting area, ears half-tuned to the loudspeaker continuously calling in flights, and half-tuned to each other.

"Has Captain Gregson sent you any additional information on what we should be expecting?" John asked out of curiosity.

"No, but he did inform me that three 'specialists' will be joining our investigation," Sherlock said through grit teeth.

"Specialists?"

"Apparently."

"Why the hell would they need specialists and the world's greatest consulting detective working on the same case?" John wondered out loud.

Sherlock shrugged stiffly, clearly irritated that some other Americans would be intruding in on his case.

"Now boarding flight 187 to New York, now boarding flight 187 to New York," a woman's voice echoed over the loudspeaker.

Sherlock stood and looked to John. "Let's go."

"But doesn't first class usually board first?" John asked, confused.

"We are in first class, John. Now lets go or we're going to have to wait in line." Sherlock started walking to the door beside the counter, knowing John wasn't far behind.

John trailed behind Sherlock and watched as Sherlock gave the woman in a tight blouse and black dress pants their tickets. She smiled and ushered them through the door, returning to her post after they were through to call the next section of the plane.

Sherlock found their seats and offered John the window seat.

John gladly obliged and looked out the window at the runway.

_Seven hours on a plane with a blabber-mouth detective? How bad could it be? _

_xxx_

John rubbed at his eyes sleepily, cracking them open at the sound of their pilot announcing for everyone to buckle up and get ready for descent. John looked over at the seat next to him and immediately snapped out of his groggy state.

Sherlock was gone.

John strained his neck to look behind him, but the curtain that separated coach from first class was blocking his view. He scooted over into Sherlock's seat and looked up and down the aisle.

No Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" John called, immediately being shushed by a woman in the seat across from theirs.

"Sorry," John whispered. "Sherlock?" he whispered.

No response.

"God-damnit, Sherlock," John muttered to himself, unbuckling himself and standing up. He walked

down the aisle and peeked through the curtain. "Sherlock?" He walked through the curtain and scanned each sleeping face as he walked toward the back of the plane, whispering Sherlock's name every so often.

"Sir, I'm going to have to politely ask you to take your seat," a flight attendant smiled at him, her smile fake and forced.

John apologized and started to make his way back to his seat, grumbling about kicking Sherlock's arse when he found him. He pulled open the curtain and found a familiar curly-haired man sitting in his seat. He walked up behind him and was about to cuss him out, when Sherlock turned and smirked at him.

"Enjoy your walk?"

"Sod off." He pushed past Sherlock, ignoring Sherlock's pained cry from John stepping on his toes, and collapsed into the seat. "And just where the hell were you?" he glared.

"I went to ask the pilot about the mechanics of the plane-"

"Lemme guess, because you were bored?"

"Yes, so when he so rudely told me to get back in my seat, I decided to inform him that yes, his wife is cheating on him," Sherlock snickered.

"Jesus, Sherlock! What the hell?" John rubbed his face and sighed. "_Sure_, deduce the hell out of the man who is flying our plane and not to mention, our lives!" John groaned.

"Oh, quit being so dramatic. The co-pilot took over, and I have been forever banned from the cockpit."

"I don't blame them," John muttered. He looked out the window at the lit-up city that was New York.

"We're here, thank heavens."

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and silently watched John marvel at the city below.

_xxx_

"You're sure Captain Gregson sent us a ride?" John looked at the occupied taxi's and shivered. He didnt want to be out in the cold for much longer. He thought London was bad, New York was proving to be worse.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at a sleek, black van parked in a pick-up zone. "There." He hopped off the curb, not bothering to check for traffic and almost got hit by a taxi that was blaring its horn.

John waved apologetically at the driver and followed the detective to the van.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, this is my partner John Watson, and I'm assuming you two are here to take us to Gregson." Sherlock looked at the two men and deduced them to pieces in his head. He decided to keep quiet, for John's sake.

The two men nodded and helped load their bags into the back.

John and Sherlock loaded themselves into the van and drove through the dark city to the NYPD's headquarters.

John looked out the tinted window at the bright lights whirring by and smiled. New York wasn't how he remembered it to be. It was bigger, and brighter, than he remembered. He looked at the large, tall buildings and let himself get lost in the magic.

"Reminds you a little of London, doesn't it?" Sherlock's gruff voice sounded beside him.

"A little," John answered, still gazing out the window at the city rushing by.

Sherlock smiled to himself and looked out the window on his side, letting himself gaze out at the bright lights and historic buildings in the same childish way John was.

When the van finally pulled into the NYPD's parking lot, Sherlock was the first to jump out.

Gregson was standing, waiting to greet Sherlock, just outside the doors to the building. Three men were behind him, standing off to the side a bit.

"Sherlock, how's it going?" Gregson pulled Sherlock into a hug. "What's it been? Three years?"

"More like five," Sherlock corrected him.

"Five years? Really? I must be older than I thought!" Gregson and Sherlock shared a laugh before

Captain Gregson's attention was on John. "And this must be Dr. John Watson! Nice to meet you,

lad!"

John held out his hand and Gregson shook it firmly. "It's nice to meet you, Captain. Sherlock has sure told me a lot about you," he lied.

Captain Gregson grinned. "I'm sure he has!" He looked over at Sherlock and winked. "You got yourself a good one; I can tell he's very happy with you."

John was caught off-guard. "Um, we're not…"

"Oh, dont worry, boy! We dont judge. New York is full of men and women like you; you're not alone.

You're free to be you!" Gregson smiled, rambling on.

"Yeah, but we're not-"

"So what've you got for me this time, Captain? Another homicide?" Sherlock cut him off, letting John calm down.

Gregson's happy atmosphere disappeared and a more tense feeling settled over him. "That's the thing," Gregson rubbed the back of his neck, "I don't know who -or what- we're dealing with."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

"A man by the name of Jerome West was, by far, our hardest case to date. He was sly, slippery, and hard to catch. We finally found him via anonymous tip, and we raided his home. We took him into custody and he was put through his trial. The jury and judge ruled that he should and would be put to death by lethal injection," Gregson cleared his throat, "Jerome was put to death a couple weeks ago…"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, "And?"

"And," Gregson pulled a folder out of his jacket and handed it to them.

Sherlock scanned his eyes over the file, John reading beside him.

"That photo isn't fake, Sherlock. It's from a security camera over at the bank. It's Jerome." Gregson looked down at his hands. "I don't know how, but it is."

"Could be a twin?" Sherlock turned the photo so it was lying the right way and peered at the man in the picture.

"Already considered that. It's not. Jerome has never had a twin, or a brother for that matter. Its just him, his mother, and his step-dad." Gregson met Sherlock's gaze. "It's Jerome."

"Could'a faked his death somehow...Heaven knows thats easy these days," John glared at Sherlock before returning his attention to the file.

"No, Jerome was killed. His mom watched the life drain from his eyes. There's even footage. There is no way that Jerome wasn't killed."

"So what are you saying?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his older friend.

"Well, that's where these guys come in." Gregson motioned for the three men to step forward.

Sherlock observed them, picking apart each detail.

One of the men reached out to shake his hand. "Sam."

The man was tall, maybe a little taller than him, and had large muscles. His hair was long, but not yet at the point of too long. He had whiskey colored eyes, dimmed from what could be loss of a loved one -scratch that, loved one_s_- and circles around his eyes that indicating sleepless nights and worry. He had dark brown hair flowing down and shaping face, a few pieces covering his forehead. He wore a black suit and a blue tie, a white dress shirt beneath it. His pants were perfectly creased, and his shoes perfectly shined.

The second man held out his hand and Sherlock grasped it. "Dean."

The man was shorter, but still very muscular. He had the same color eyes, maybe a little greener, and the same dull shine in his eyes like his brother. Yes, this man was clearly related to the first. Same facial structure, same eyes. Could be a cousin, but a brother was a better bet. He had brown spiky hair, and light stubble on his chin and on the bottom of his cheeks. He was wearing an almost identical get-up, except for the tie. He wore a silver tie, and brown dress shoes.

Lastly, the third man stepped up and shook his hand. "Cas."

This man was about as tall as Dean, maybe a bit taller, and had a completely different aura about him. He was almost...pure. His eyes were what gave him away, though. The eyes always give them away. His sparkling blue eyes weren't dim like the brothers, but full of regret and guilt. He had done something and it hadn't been good. Sherlock couldn't tell what, and he didnt even know if he wanted to know. His hair was spiked like Dean's, but messier. It had been like he had just had a night full of snogging and had forgotten to comb it out. Cas had on a black suit and a blue tie, but a tan trenchcoat was draped over him, covering up his shoulders and half his body. Sherlock glanded at his shoes and found them to be almost identical to Sam's.

"Nice to meet you." Sherlock faked a smile and stepped back. "I'm Sherlock Holmes and this is John Watson."

John stepped up and shook their hands like Sherlock had, minus the deductions of course.

"We've heard amazing things, Mr. Holmes," Sam smiled.

"Sherlock, please, and thank you. I am aware I am quite _amazing_," Sherlock looked to John and John rolled his eyes.

Gregson laughed, and the trio put on fake smiles.

"So how about we correlate inside, it's freezing out here," Sam suggested.

Everyone agreed and filed into the building.

_xxx_

Dean leaned back in the swivel chair he was occupying and tried to focus on what Holmes was going on about.

Truth is, he didn't want any help from this so-called famous detective. He knew exactly what they were up against and no detective from London would be able to help.

Dean looked over at Sam and met his eyes. He rolled his green eyes and Sam shook his head. He

returned his attention to Sherlock as Dean started slowly spinning his chair. Before he knew it, he was almost spinning fully around, not noticing the strange looks he was getting from Sherlock's assistant.

"Would you care to listen, Dean?" Sherlock stopped his rambling deductions and glared at the man acting as if he were five years old. "Or am I boring you?"

Dean straightened his chair and sat up, placing his elbows on the table. "I just want to find the guy and gank him."

"Gank?" John stared at Dean.

"I think what Dean is _trying_ to say is, we just want to find the guy and return him to jail, so he can be properly taken care of…" Sam stopped as he noticed what he was saying. He wasn't used to this; he was used to Dean's way of find the SOB, gank him, and move on. He could understand why Dean was going stir-crazy; they had never really had to go this far into the act of agents. It had always been talk to the boss, get the case, take care of it, and leave before anyone would start asking questions.

Sherlock gave him an annoyed look and sighed. "We all want to find him and take him back into custody, but your brother twirling around in his chair like some child is distracting and immature. How did he even become a 'specialist' with that kind of immature attitude?"

John sighed. "Here we go."

Dean glared at the detective, and the detective glared back. Dean stood up and threw his hands up in the air. "I'm done. I'll just find the son of a bitch myself and put him down."

"And how do you expect to do that? You dont even know where he is!" Sherlock called after the agent storming his way out of the conference room.

"I'll find him."

Castiel looked at Sam and Sam shrugged. "I should go after him…" Cas began to stand, but Sam stopped him.

"Cas, he'll be fine. He's just...a little worked up right now, is all. He'll be fine; he just needs to cool off," Sam assured him.

Cas nodded and reluctantly sat back down, stealing a glance at the door before returning his attention to the detective and his partner.

_xxx_

"Smart-ass detective thinks he knows everything…" Dean kicked a rock across the parking lot, hearing it land far off. "He doesn't know everything; he doesn't even know what we're up against!"

Dean grumbled to himself.

Dean walked across the parking lot, the crunch of the gravel being the only other noise other than muffled engines and honks from New York's traffic. He walked off the parking lot and onto the sidewalk. He found a bench and sat down, steeling himself from the coldness of the bench. He shivered and pulled out his phone, entering Jerome's characteristics to try and see how to kill whatever he was.

Dean was certain the man was a vampire, or an immortal, but he wanted to confirm his guesses.

These creatures would make sense, though, seeing as you have to cut off a vampire's head and an immortal is immortal unless an act of God smote him. To be honest, Dean was hoping he was a vampire; much easier to kill than an immortal.

Suddenly, a shrill shriek pierced the air, causing Dean to jump. He located where the shriek came from and ran, full sprint, to where he heard it from. He ran down an alley and heard the screams coming from the end of it.

He was so focused on getting to the end of the alley, that he didnt even see the man lurking in the shadows.

The man emerged and hit Dean on the back of his head with a metal pipe, causing Dean to drop to the ground like a dead-weight.

Dean hit the ground and was out like a light.

_xxx_

"...that is why I believe the man we are looking for is someone trying to take over Jerome's life. Going to the full extent of even dressing, and getting plastic surgery done to look exactly like him. My guess is he's been planning this for awhile, or he wouldn't have had enough time to get the surgeries done to take on this man's life," Sherlock finished.

Castiel furrowed his brow at Sherlock, then turned to Sam.

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He tried again, "Um, good theory, but...what evidence is there to support this?"

"My deductions suggest…" Sherlock started.

Sam raised his eyebrows, "Deductions? More like _inductions_, but anyway-"

"Ah!" Castiel grabbed his head and yelped in pain. His head throbbed like he had just been hit by something hard on the back of the head. He held his head, trying to stop the pain.

Sam bolted out of his chair and went to his side. "Cas? Cas, what's the matter?"

Castiel closed his eyes and waited the pain out. After a few moments, he opened his eyes and his gaze met Sam's.

"Dean."

_xxx_

Dean opened his eyes and groaned. His head hurt bad and he couldn't do anything about it because he was tied to a chair.

"A chair? Really? Could you get any more stereotypical?" Dean tried to be his witty self, but the pain cause it to come out as strained and weak.

Jerome laughed, "Oh, Dean. Still trying to be a smart-ass, huh?" He stood from where he was sitting up against the wall and approached him.

"Stay away from me you undead bitch," Dean warned.

"Undead? _Undead_? What _are_ you talking about?" Jerome laughed wickedly. "There are no such things as monsters, Dean. Didn't your _mommy_ ever tell you that?"

Dean clenched his fists, wishing he could swing a couple good punches at the man's face. "Shut the hell up."

"Oh, did I strike a nerve?" Jerome circled Dean. "Does someone have mommy issues?"

"I said get the hell away from me!" Dean screamed, doing anything in his power to break free from the ropes that held him tied to the chair. He gave up and felt his limbs go limp from the exhaustion.

Jerome smiled evilly, "You're a hunter, aren't you? Arent you supposed to be on top of things like this?"

Dean laughed coldly, "Usually, but this time we got held up."

"Ah, by the genius detective and his pet, yes, I've heard."

Dean glanced up at the man, "You know?"

"Of course I know," Jerome grimaced, "People were hired to find me and take me into custody, Dean, of course I know. I've been watching them since they arrived; cute couple if I do say so myself. They kind of remind me of you and Cas."

Dean's eyes darted up to him, "Cas and I? Nothing's going on between us," Dean swallowed nervously, "but that's more than I can say for the detective and his friend."

Jerome laughed, not responding. He turned and strode over to the window, looking down onto the street.

Dean took this chance to survey his surroundings. He was in an abandoned building -how original- somewhere far off from the heart of the city. He knew this because he couldn't hear the usual hustle-bustle from the New Yorkers transit. Four large windows were along the wall, one boarded up with large, thick shards of glass on the ground, and the others were intact. Jerome was standing in front of one, and what from Dean could tell, a street was below them. His guess was confirmed when headlights from a vehicle going the opposite way glinted through the window. This also indicated to him that they weren't that high up.

Dean noticed Jerome fidgeting, this being a tell-tale sign of being restless. He decided to strike up a conversation before Jerome got so bored that he fed. "So, what'd you go to jail for?" Dean asked, pulling at his ropes again, hoping they'd give.

"What do you think? I killed people, hunted them," Jerome smiled sickly. "Kind of what you do."

"I don't hunt people, I hunt monsters."

"Monsters that have lives, Dean. How would you like it if your brother was put down?" Dean glared at him. "You wouldn't like it would you? But all monsters are the same to you, no matter if they have family or not."

"If you kill others, I'm going to kill you, no matter the circumstances," Dean growled.

"So, if someone is a monster, they deserved to be killed?" Dean didn't answer. "So would a man, such as yourself, who kills monsters for a living, be considered one himself?" Jerome watched Dean's gaze flicker away and quickly return to him.

Dean kept his mouth shut and continued to hold Jerome's gaze, showing he was strong and not scared.

Jerome sighed, "Oh, Dean. Always so hard-headed." He approached Dean and leaned down to speak in his ear, "Too bad that'll all change when I start drinking you dry. You'll be crying for your mama then."

Dean heard the sickening gushing sounds of vangs coming through the gums.

Jerome was about to sink his teeth in when he heard a shot ring out, and felt a bullet through his back. He whirled around to face a confused John Watson and his flatmate staring at him. "Bullets won't help you, mate." He lunged at John, taking the man down and pinning him to the ground.

Sherlock tried to pull the man off John as John lashed out, punching and kicking the man.

Castiel ran to Dean and untied his ropes as Sam went to John's aid.

Sam barreled himself against Jerome, sending him flying off of John. Sam landed on the ground, next to Jerome. He regained his composure and pinned Jerome to the ground.

"It's a vamp, Sammy!" Dean yelled, still being untied.

Sam nodded and looked over at Sherlock. "Sherlock, find something I can use to cut this guy's head off."

Sherlock's eyes went wide. "You're going to murder him? What the hell kind of specialists are you?"

"I'll explain later! Find something, _now_!" Sam screamed, fighting against Jerome to keep him down.

When Dean was free, he looked over at the broken windows and picked up one of the thick shards. He ran to his brother's aid and with one strong swoop, he had brought the shard down on Jerome's neck.

Blood splattered everywhere as Jerome's throat cut one-fourth of the way through.

Dean kept slashing and cutting, his anger boiling over.

"Dean..._Dean_." Castiel put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "He's dead; the vampire is dead."

Dean looked down, just now noticing that his brother had climbed off, Jerome's head was severed, and the two detectives were staring, horrified, off in the corner.

He wiped his face, shmearing the blood, and sighed, lightly brushing Cas' hand off of his shoulder. "I'm good, I'm fine."

Sam looked over at the horrified detectives. "I think it's time to explain."

xxx

"Vampires? What the hell kind of people do you take us for? Idiots?" John took a drink from his coffee, staring at the three men.

They had cleaned up, Sherlock and John silent the whole time, mostly from terror. Now they were in a coffee shop, placed strategically toward the back of the shop, hoping that no one would eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Listen, you may not believe it, but you saw Jerome. He had fangs," Dean directed the comment at John, since he had been the one to get pinned down.

John looked down at his hands, subconsciously rubbing at his wrist. "Yeah...but _vampires_? Come on."

Sherlock sat silent, no doubt trying to put this whole thing together.

"Vampires, werewolves, ghosts, they're all out there," Sam sighed. "You just happened to meet one of the worst of all the things we hunt."

"So, hunting...that's what your 'specialty' is...and Gregson _knew _this?" John asked.

"Not exactly," Dean replied.

John looked at the men and sighed, running his hands through his hair. "You're not actually agents, are you?" It was more of a statement than a question.

Dean smiled sheepishly. "We do whatever we have to to get information on what we're up against.

That'd be why we weren't used to sitting down and _talking_ about it."

John nodded, still stunned. "Monsters...monsters are real. Ha," John looked down at the table, repeating himself and trying to convince himself he wasn't crazy.

Castiel looked over at Sherlock. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He just started straight ahead.

"Is he okay?" Castiel asked John.

"Probably just in his mind palace, storing this information. He's fine," John smiled. He glanced down at his watch, and sighed. "We should be off. Our plane is set to arrive in about three hours."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "You just got here."

John chuckled, "Well Sherlock bought tickets knowing we weren't going to be needed long. He usually has a case solved in under twenty-four hours." He pulled his coat on and shoved the detective in the arm to have him resurface to reality.

Sherlock eyed John, confused.

"Plane. London. Time to go," John explained shortly.

Sherlock nodded stiffly and began to dress himself in his coat.

John and Sherlock stood, as did the trio.

John extended his hand and shook their hands. "Well, I wish I could say this was fun, but...you know."

Sam chuckled, "Don't worry about it."

John smiled. "We appreciate the help, and I have to admit, I'm glad you guys helped. We would've been _way _out of our element."

"No problem," Dean smiled.

John and Sherlock nodded curtly and exited the shop, willing to let what had just happened leave their minds forever.

They hailed a cab and climbed in.

John slid in next to Sherlock and sighed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

Sherlock looked over and chuckled. "So you enjoyed your time in the states?"

"Oh _yeah_," he responded sarcastically.

"So you want to come here again?" Sherlock smirked.

"_Hell_ no," John laughed. "I'm sure Sam, Dean, and Cas can take care of all the cases here from now on."

Sherlock chuckled deeply. "I agree completely."

_**Thanks for reading! :) This was a prompt from gallifreyan-lettuce on tumblr :) **_

_**Thanks for the prompt!**_

_**Follow me at carryonmywaywardmishamigo**_


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